She had been beautiful and popular while yet alive, but now all that beauty was for Fernando alone to enjoy. Her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders, her eyes were slightly sunken already by her two days in the ground. Her skin was pinched at the corners of her mouth, the mortician's last attempt to disguise the agony of her death. A narrow white scar tracing her throat from ear to ear marked the cause of her untimely demise under the knife of a maniac with rape and murder on his mind.
Fernando's tastes had never strayed to rape. The idea of a woman struggling to be free did nothing for him – far better to have them quiet and unresistant, without a thought of flight. Helen Falconer was at peace now, and her pain was over. Fernando liked to think he was redressing the balance of her life by giving her pleasure after her death. Plus there was of course the bonus of getting pleasure for himself in the process.
His cock was rigid and swollen already; it had been so since he'd prised the lid off the freshly-buried coffin and set eyes on the latest victim of the Hamdale Ripper. She had only been 16 when the Ripper had struck her down. Fernando was glad of some young meat after his feasts earlier in the year, following the maniac known as the 'Granny Slayer'. Fernando had taken advantage of the man's prodigious death toll, but it was always preferable to use the young flesh of dead virgins and children than the wizened skins of the elderly. What he did was about life really, not death. The younger they were, the more full of life, the better.
Helen Falconer was far more his idea of what was right. The death scar on her neck, the suppleness of her pallid skin – so slow to decay when there were young – thrilled him. His fingers sought lower down her body, pulling apart her blouse to expose the lightly bruised ribs and flat belly. So ravishing in death's serene calm, so tantalising and pure.
Fernando leant closer to her, breathing in deeply the scents of formaldehyde, jasmine and earth. The scent of the dead, the scent he loved above all others. He nuzzled between the large globes of her tits, tongue racing lasciviously over her nipples. His cock sprang into life again, straining keen and eager beneath his robes.
One hand slid down to her skirt, gently hitching it up over her stockinged thighs and hips. The flavour of her cunt was strong in his mouth already; he could anticipate the thrill of her cold dryness, that so familiar sensation that always made him so anxious to come. Just to lie there, drinking imaginary juice from her dead lips, licking at the bloodless clitoris and half expecting a shudder of response from the corpse! Every body was the same at that point, every one seemed about to recover life to offer him a pearlescent tribute – but none of them ever had or would.
He snuggled between her legs, making himself comfortable against the crook of her knees, his mouth almost upon her softly downed lips. The first gentle lick, his tongue sliding cautiously into the crack of her pussy, and he clutched at his throbbing cock as a delicious spasm rocked through him. He licked harder, his fingers closing into a fist upon his rigid tool, as more spasms rippled through his cold body.
The rhythm took over – his tongue sliding into the dead girl's slit, his hand pulling back the foreskin over his rampant cock. His ears were full of the rhythm, washing his senses away on a tide of deafening blood.
His saliva was all over her cunt now, making it slick and moist and faintly warm. She felt alive, but not too much that she would push him away and run screaming to the authorities. Not even his dog collar would give him immunity if he were caught defiling a corpse, one of his own parishioners whom he had buried on Saturday.
The danger spurred him on to a greater sense of ecstasy and he clambered to his knees, holding his robes up as he admired the pallor of her cunt and the stiffness of his inflamed cock.
With a cry of feral delight the two met, hot rigid meat forced hard and deep into the gently decaying flesh of her cavity. He withdrew, pumped again, withdrew, sank in deeper, withdrew, pumped and came explosively.
The body shuddered away from him as the jet of his spunk filled up the narrow tunnel. His senses numb and ecstatic, Fernando reached out to touch the cold tits again and felt a pulse beneath his fingers.
Impossible! – an hallucination again as had happened with others sometimes when the orgasm was so monstrously intense.
But then he felt her belly and finally her face, and the truth was inescapable. She was growing warmer! With terror clawing at his heart he scrambled to his feet and reached for the coffin lid to force her back into the world of the dead. It cannot be, he told himself urgently, panic consuming him. Cannot, cannot, cannot.
"Father Fernando."
The voice struck horror into his very soul and he turned his gaze upon her face. She lay in repose, no sign of life or motion apparent in her white form.
"Father Fernando." More insistent now – stronger.
He sealed the coffin frantically, pouring earth on top of it to hide his crime whilst scrambling to get out of the pit.
"Father Fernando."
"Stop it!" he shrieked aloud. "Leave me alone." He quit the grave, tumbling more earth into the hole to bury her evil voice.
He fled into the safety of the church, falling down prostrate before the altar and the bleeding Christ on the enormous wooden crucifix. How lifelike the blood seemed to his demented eyes, how real the pain on that plaster face. Words of a prayer began to tumble out, senseless and confused.
Suddenly a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he leapt to his feet, paralysed with terror. Turning round he saw the friendly, open face of his bishop, a curious expression of compassion or understanding on his face so out of place with Fernando's sin that he fell away from him, blood searing his face with agonies of shame.
"Father Fernando."
Fernando stared wildly about, before fixing his eyes on the bishop's face. Surely he could hear that spectral voice too. Then the bishop's lips moved and spoke. "Father Fernando." His grip on Fernando's shoulder intensified and he brought him closer until their faces were but inches apart. "Father Fernando," he said again, a sinister smile edged with razor sharp teeth splitting his friendly expression apart. "I always knew you were fit to be one of us." The Hamdale Ripper smiled wider, fangs gleaming, and descended on the exposed throat of the priest.
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